the Lonesome Gods (1983) (5 page)

"About that."

"Well, the horses are in good shape." He glanced back. "They don't seem to have followed us."

"I wouldn't trust them," Kelso replied. "Maybe we made it so tough they won't want to try it again, but that's not like the Mohaves."

"We could make another mile, maybe two." Farley looked around at us. "Is everybody game?"

"Let's go," Fletcher said. "It'll be as hot here as there." Westward and south we walked, beside or behind the wagon, letting the horses have less weight to pull. My father, weak though I knew he was, walked beside me. "We must take care," he said, "when we approach the spring."

"There will be Indians?"

"Perhaps. All who travel in the desert must have water. The Indians know this. They also know where the water is. They might be there before us, waiting."

We had fallen behind a little, and now he stopped. "Johannes, when I leave this life, I shall have almos
t
nothing to leave you, except, in these last months, some little wisdom. Listen well. It is all I have."

We started on again, and he said, "Much of what I say may be nonsense, but a few things I have learned, and the most important is that he who ceases to learn is already a half-dead man. And do not be like an oyster who rests on the sea bottom waiting for the good things to come by. Search for them, find them.

"This desert is a book of many pages, and just when you believe you know all there is to know, it will surprise you with the unexpected. Nor was it always desert. You will see where ancient rivers have run, you will find where villages were, and where they are no longer. "If you dig down a few inches, you will find a layer of black soil that is decayed vegetation. Once there was grass here, and there were trees. Oaks, I would presume. Along the shores of streams or lakes where men once lived, I have found arrowheads, flint knives, and scrapers for cleaning the fur from hides.

"But remember that men most go where water is, so despite all the vastness of the desert, it is really a very small place."

"Papa? I have heard they could not find you and Mama." "They could not. Or perhaps their Indians did not try hard enough, for they knew me as a friend. But it was more than that, Johannes.

"There are places in the desert called tanks, where water collects in natural rock basins. Sometimes it is a very large amount of water, sometimes only a little. "There are seeps where in a week or more a few quarts of water may collect. I would go to one of these places, drink a little, let my horse have what was left, and I would go on, leaving nothing for those who followed. The desert Indians who were guides for those who pursued me knew those places too. They knew I would be gone and there would be no water, and the pursuing parties were six, eight, often twenty men. Some of them would not listen to the Indians, and they died out there for their foolishness."

We moved on into the vast desert, plodding slowly
,
wearily along behind the wagon and its tired horses. Finally we stopped. We had come to Piute Wash.

Tired as we were, and as were the horses, Farley took them to the far side. "When you come to a stream or dry wash," he commented as he was removing the harness, "always cross to the far side. By morning it may be runnin' bank-full."

My father told me to listen to such things, but I did not need to be told, for it was the way boys learned, and there was much I wished to know.

Miss Nesselrode sat near me when we were eating, and she asked me if I had been to school. "I am six," I said. "You seem older." She looked at me thoughtfully. "Have you known many children?"

"No, ma'am. We have moved very often."

"Can you read?"

"Yes, ma'am, and write, too. Mama and Papa taught me. And we read a lot together. Mama or Papa would read to each other or to me. I like to be read to, and sometimes we would look for places on the map that we had been reading about."

In the night the coyotes came and howled near the wagon, and I heard Mr. Farley go out to his horses and walk among them so they would not be frightened. My father was lying near me under the wagon, and sometimes when he turned on his wounded shoulder he would cry out in his sleep, but only a little.

The stars were very bright and there were no clouds. Once I got from under my blankets and sat on the wagon tongue, liking the night.

Mr. Finney was on guard then, and he stopped beside me. "Can't sleep?"

"I woke up, and it was so bright. I wanted to listen." "I know how that is. Get the feeling sometimes myself, but better sleep. We've got a long day ahead."

"Will we stop at Piute Spring?"

"Maybe even overnight. Doug Farley makes up his own mind, and somethin's botherin' him. I can read it in him."

At daybreak we were moving again, heading due wes
t
to the low, rocky mountains, and by midmorning we were loading our barrels at the spring. Farley told Kelso to fix a good breakfast, with lots of coffee.

It was a very rocky but pleasant place. From the spring a small stream ran over the rocks and disappeared in the sand some distance away. There was Indian writing on some of the rocks.

With a cup of coffee in his hand, Farley walked over to Papa. "You know this trail?"

"Somewhat. There are springs at intervals. It is used by both Mohaves and Piutes. I believe it is very old. Pueblo Indians used to come out here to work turquoise mines."

"I'm uneasy about it."

"Trust yourself. You know this country. If you're uneasy, there's a reason. Your senses have perceived something your brain hasn't."

Farley glanced at him. "You believe that? I guess most of us do, when it comes to that. Some call it instinct." He sipped his coffee. "Kelso's feelin' it too. Maybe it's that pass when we get to the mountains or that spooky country off to the north, in the Tehachapis."

Farley hesitated, then asked, "How're you doin', Verne? You bein' sick an' all, and then losin' blood."

"I'll be all right. I'll make it." Then he added, "I have to, for the boy's sake."

They did not see me sitting on a rock near the water, but the air was clear and I heard their voices, and I looked into the water and wished my father would live forever.

Sometimes at night I dreamed of that fierce old man who awaited me. What would he do when he saw me? I dreamed of a sunlit ranch house where he would be but my father would not, and I was frightened. I did not know what to expect or what to think, only that I did not want to go to that old man, or even to see him.

Sometimes I wanted to cry when I was alone in my blankets, but my father had troubles enough and might hear me and be unhappy. So I lay wide-eyed in the night, my eyes dry, but the tears were inside me.

We left Piute Spring that day and suddenly, Miss Nesselrode was walking beside me. We were behind the others and alone. You are unhappy," she said abruptly. "Is it because your father is ill? Or is it something else, too?"

For a moment I said nothing, for this was very private and I did not think I should speak of it to a stranger, but then I said, "Papa is taking me to my grandpa."

"I see." After a minute she said, "Johannes, if it does not go well for you there, come to me. I shall be in Los Angeles. Will you remember that, Johannes?"

I would remember, but then I would have to be afraid for her, too.

As if she knew what I had thought, she said, "I am not afraid, Johannes. You will be safe with me."

I looked up at her, and I believed her.

Chapter
6

My father was dying and must find a home for me: this I knew very well, and this I understood. Thi
s
was why we had come on this journey, trusting ourselves to Mr. Farley and his lone wagon. But why had the others come?

When we were walking alone once, I asked my father. "It is a guess, of course, for none of them have said very much, but I would say that Fraser hopes to write a book, and later to lecture.

"He is not well-off, as you can see. He has taught school, I believe, but there is small future in that for a young man with no connections. I think he hopes to write a book that will give him some stature, and use it as a stepping-stone to the future.

"Mrs. Weber? I do not know, of course, but I would suggest that she goes west to marry again. There are fewer women out there, and she feels she would not be lost in the crowd. She is not very bright, but in her own way she is shrewd, and I think she would make the right sort of man a good wife."

"And Mr. Fletcher?" I wondered.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Fletcher. Avoid him, Johannes, and avoid men of his kind. He is a surly brute, quick to temper, violent in expression. If he has not already done so, he will someday kill a man, or be killed. I would surmise that he is running away from something he has done or toward something he expects to do.

"More likely," Papa added, "the former, judging by the way he kept from sight until we were far from Santa Fe."

"Miss Nesselrode?"

He stopped, watching the wagon ahead of us. It was almost a half-mile off now, and Fraser and Fletcher plodded along at least half that distance in front of us. "A handsome young woman. Not beautiful, but handsome. And she is intelligent. She is unmarried, and the reason is obvious. She is much brighter than most of the men she meets, and unless she becomes very lonely, she will settle for nothing less than the best.

"Unhappily, she is a woman alone. Obviously she has no family, no position. The men she would be apt to meet are marrying to better themselves, marrying money or family or both, which leaves Miss Nesselrode a respected outsider. But I do not believe Miss Nesselrode is thinking of marriage."

I told my father then what she had said to me. He stopped again, quite suddenly.

"She said that, did she?" He swore softly. "I'll be damned! Well, son, I do not think she realizes what she is inviting, but you have my permission to go to her if you wish. And if you can."

He put a hand on my shoulder. "At least you have made a friend, and that is important, Johannes. And she is your friend. You made her a friend with no help from me."

Sometime during that day the decision was made to go by a different route than the one planned. Mr. Farley decided, and he told as about it at supper.

We would be longer in the desert. We would come to Los Angeles by a different way. We would avoid some mountains and perhaps some trouble with outlaws. We would be wending a way through the desert where wagons had not gone, and were likely to see some sights others had not seen.

Mr. Fletcher immediately agreed, and Mr. Fraser also. Miss Nesselrode listened carefully and then agreed. "If you think it best," she said, but she turned to my father. "You have experience of the desert. Do you think it wise?" "I do," Papa said, "although the way is longer."

Later, when we were moving again, she looked over at my father. "Mr. Verne, if you are feeling well enough, perhaps you could tell us something of Los Angeles?" "Of course," he agreed. "It is a very small town, and you must remember it is nearly eight years since I have been there, and it was changing even then. When I left, there were, I suppose, between two and three thousand people, mostly of Spanish extraction. There were a few blacks, most of them with Spanish blood and Spanish names, and a handful of Europeans and Anglos.

"Water comes to the town from zanjas, or ditches. There are wells, also. Several of the Anglos have married Spanish girls from the old families. These Anglos are mostly former mountain men, trappers, and traders who came west when the fur trade ceased to be profitable. They are very shrewd men, alive to opportunity and quick to move.

"The town is twenty miles from the sea, the climate is superb, and the town has room in which to grow." "There is gold there?" Fletcher asked. "I heard gold had been discovered."

"There is some mining. I knew the man who first discovered it. He was sitting on a hillside and pulled some wild onions and found bits of gold in the earth clinging to the roots."

"There is a harbor?" Miss Nesselrode asked.

"A quite good one, that will be made better. There's some coast-wise trade, and trade with the Sandwich Islands as well as Mexico."

"And China?"

"A little. They buy furs, mostly the sea otter. The business has fallen into the hands of the Russians, I hear." As we moved, the conversation ceased, then started up again.

Often I slept, awakening to find everybody else asleep, and once when we were walking to ease the load on the horses, my father said, "Your Miss Nesselrode is a very bright young woman. I wonder what her plans are?"

Papa was not the only one who was curious. One morni
ng by the fire, when only Mr. Farley and Mr. Kelso were there, I heard Mr. Farley saying, "There isn't much out there for a single woman except to get married."

"She might teach school."

"She'd have to speak Spanish. Unless maybe she started a private school for the Anglos and foreigners."

Fletcher came over and extended his hands to the fire. He had overheard the comments, just as I had. "She's got money," he said. "I figure she's well-off."

"She has relatives out there, I suspect," Kelso said, a shade of irritation in his tone. I knew he did not like Fletcher.